Spoken in Whispers: The Autobiography of a Horse Whisperer

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

To Tell or Not to Tell?

`Bear down, Nicci! Bear down! Now push, squeeeeeze with your thighs! Remember, bars of steel! Push now, bear down. How does it feel? Breathe ... breathe, remember to breeeeeathe. Have you got him yet? Look! Look what he's doing.'

    I didn't need to look, concentrating on gasping great lungfuls of air in as dignified a manner as possible; considering how he was feeling, he was doing fantastically well. At that stage, I was selfishly more worried about my lasting the course; yet another trickle of sweat was running down the centre of my back and collecting in a pool under my seat. The book on Emma's innovative riding technique had been difficult to follow, but nowhere near as difficult as her riding course was turning out to be.

    Poise and tone, two of the most painful words associated with riding. Tone, they say, is required in order to ride with poise, hence the need for stomach muscles that would not flinch under the impact of a sledgehammer, and thighs that could squeeze the breath out of a rhino. All in order that one might float across the ground, totally in harmony with the horse, instead of being the more accustomed sack of potatoes tied to the saddle.

    I had not really wanted to bring Arnie on the course with me. There had been an option to borrow a horse but, unfortunately, there had been a huge demand for places, and too few owners brave enough to lend their horses to unknown participants. I had therefore no real choice; forfeit the course -- or go, in the hope that it wouldn't prove too much for Arnie.

    I was there to learn to ride `properly'. During my years in racing, I had been renowned for my `stickability' and lack of fear. Since leaving the racing world, however, I had encountered successful and professional `horsey' people from other disciplines; people who began to impress upon me the need to take control of my wayward mount, to ride with precision and in a polished style.

    The general consensus of opinion was that Arnie had talent, balance and ability in abundance, and if only `that girl' would get a grip of him, then he would definitely go a long way. My balance was considered good, and I had earned a reputation for being a natural with young or difficult horses, but, in the eyes of these others, I couldn't actually `ride'.

    Eventually, and unusually for me, I had become conscious of the opinions of this new equestrian fraternity, and I had believed them. Now, among skilled instructors with years of disciplined riding technique at their disposal, I hoped to master this new controlled approach.

    However, I was struggling to come to terms with the whole philosophy of this, and so was Arnie. During his previous career as a point-to-pointer, he had been handicapped by a lung problem, in spite of an operation intended to help. He had also sustained various injuries, some of which he had never fully recovered from. As a result, I had never asked anything of him. My focus, when riding, had always been to take a back seat -- to go with what I was given. If he marched along with a long springy stride, then that was marvellous. If he was having a stiff day, with his back and his joints aching, then we would stroll along gently, with me mirroring his lopsidedness. If we were jumping at breakneck racing speed, then I would just sit still and attempt to bring him back to me and steer for the next fence. I had never taken the driver's seat before in this way.

    `Nicci! How are your tendons?' I was awoken from my daydream by a great booming, operatic voice. The woman must have had eyes in the back of her head, for I was not the only person in the arena at that moment; there were others, each of us undergoing our own personal masochistic session.

    `Do they feel like knicker elastic yet? Bear down remember! Head up ... and smile!'

    I gasped. Smile? ... smile! It was as much as I could do not to cry out in agony. I looked across and threw her a smile and a grunt as best as I could manage whilst gritting my teeth.

    I most certainly was using muscles that had lain dormant for far too long, but at what cost? Would I ever be able to walk again when they winched me off? I could already feel my legs taking on the consistency of rubber and they had no body weight on them yet. Instead of the picture of grace and elegance that I was aiming for; I would have gone unnoticed lying in a field of beetroots.

    And at what cost to Arnie? I knew the pressure he was under. I knew how he was feeling, both physically and emotionally. I struggled to pay attention to Emma, to hang on in there, battling with my guilt as it became increasingly difficult to come to terms with my dilemma: Arnie, despite his valiant efforts to cope with this new style, was being punished by pain as his muscles struggled to respond to the demands I was putting on him. Punished in spite of his courage, in spite of his attempts to give of his best.

    `That's better, Nicci. Tone, remember, tone -- back straight, seat bones down. Concentrate now, come on.' Emma was slight of stature, yet with a definite presence, as she boomed commands to all from the centre of the indoor arena. Clad in smart, khaki, cavalry twill jodhpurs and a head scarf, she conveyed and received respect.

    My dilemma increased. We could not continue like this. I had to get Arnie out of here and back to the stable block. But how could I excuse myself?. What reasonable explanation could I give for leaving in the middle of a lesson? It would seem so rude. To the external eye, Arnie looked magnificent; handsome, calm and poised -- there were no outward signs of his suffering. What on earth should I do?

    `Come on, Nicci! Pay attention, tits to his ears remember, tits to his ears!' In spite of everything, I had to laugh. Emma had the strangest expressions to explain what she wanted, but they certainly stuck in the mind! Tits to his ears. My old riding instructor in Germany would have had heart failure.

    Without warning, Arnie suddenly spun around and took off across the arena, standing vertically on his hind legs, sending everybody scattering for cover. It was not the danger, more the speed and suddenness of his response that caught those on the ground unawares. The other horses being schooled took Arnie's actions as a cue for general `freedom of expression time' and promptly started squealing, bucking and galloping around. The others were quickly brought under control but Arnie, who had now reached the limits of his endurance, stood straight up on his hind legs again, pawing at the air.

    I was conscious of a sea of open mouths, somewhere far below my lofty vantage point. This was not the kind of behaviour one expected in the hallowed grounds of a dressage arena. `Enough now, Arnie. You're out of order,' I spoke quietly but firmly to him as he reared again. I knew that what he was doing was not out of malice so I resorted to my usual method of sitting still and going with the flow. At that point all four feet returned to earth. `Thank you,' I whispered.

    `Oh well sat!' said Emma. There was a pause as our gaze met; the usual custom now was for `loons' -- as Arnie had now been branded -- to be schooled by Emma herself, or for her to offer tuition on how to deal with such a horse.

    I looked her straight in the eye; there was no way that I was going to put him through any more. `I'm going to put him away now, he's had enough for today, he feels too pressured, and his back is killing him.'

    She looked surprised, and I was conscious of the silence and curious glances from the other riders and onlookers.

    `Yes, yes, Nicci, you do just that,' came the reply. In normal circumstances one would have been expected to take control, to ride the horse through the problem and come out the other side triumphant. What I had said had registered, but made no sense. Emma then carried on with the others who had now all returned to their tasks.

    Back at the stable block, which was empty apart from two other horses, I tended to my distressed horse. Trying to keep a handle on my emotions, I washed him down and put rugs on his trembling, breathless body, shivering in spite of the heat of the summer's day. I talked to him softly and told him not to worry. I was not at all ashamed of his behaviour, but I was ashamed of my own. All those times in the past, when we had muddled through in our usual slapdash way, we had been together; he led and I followed, somehow knowing that he was doing his absolute best. But now I had taken over, using physical and mental force. And I had hurt him. Really hurt him.

    As I allowed this realisation full throttle, I besieged him with a tidal wave of sobbing guilt, almost enough to wash him down all over again. What on earth had I been thinking of? Just because I had been humiliated by others into a submissive reappraisal of my riding, I had allowed myself to believe that I was letting Arnie down by not working him `properly', allowed myself to believe that others knew my horse better than I did.

    Guilt. I had been motivated to come on this course by guilt and, right now, I felt it -- through every nerve-ending in my body I was overwhelmed by huge waves of guilt, enveloped in it as if by a blanketing, moisture-laden, November fog.

    I wept. Boy, did I weep -- for him and for me. His back was so sore. I could feel great tearing pains racking through his shivering muscles. I could also see the beginnings of soft-tissue swellings rising under his silky coat; huge, hot and tender blisters. And all for what? Not for him, that was for sure.

    I massaged him and fed him homoeopathic remedies, shovelling them into his mouth. Perhaps they would take this nightmare away I was so consumed by my own self-punishment that I barely heard my name being called.

    `Nicci?' Jackie, my room-mate, was standing behind me. `Are you all right?'

    My reddened eyes had obviously betrayed me. `Yes, I'm fine thank you. I just feel so bad about Arnie.'

    Jackie put her grey gelding away in his stable next door to Arnie. `Your boy seemed a bit pressured before the end there. Is he going to be okay?' she enquired with genuine concern.

    Just hearing those few words made me feel so much better. At least here was one person who was not going to brand my horse a `head case' and me a wimp for not sorting him out.

    `Yes, he's okay. I knew I was asking a lot of him.' My head spun. Dare I tell her? Dare I explain what had really happened?

    I decided to say nothing. Robert, my husband, had warned me, as he'd dropped me off here, that I shouldn't expect to find people who would calmly accept that I communicated telepathically with horses. After all, he hadn't initially. He was probably right. How on earth could I ever explain to anybody what was going on; what I was capable of -- what horses were capable of -- without them all thinking me mad?

    As we all left the yard at the end of the day, I stopped off in the village for some supplies on the way to the bed and breakfast lodgings. Such had been my hurry to come away on the course that I had arrived without any shampoo or deodorant, both of which I needed in abundance if I was to salvage something from my features in time to meet the others later for a drink in the local pub.

    Fortunately, the little b&b where several of us were staying was only round the corner and I was first in. That meant -- hot water! I ran myself a bath in the tiny bathroom, more of a `sit-up-and-beg' type of bath, but one of the advantages of not being very tall is that these things don't matter. With the combination of a cup of tea, cigarette, steaming hot water and Radox, I was beginning to feel that I might be able to walk again after all. Gradually, as I was enveloped in the warmth of the relaxing water, I felt myself becoming dazed, my mind a whirl of mixed emotions and fears. I managed to still myself into a sort of dreamy half-world between asleep and awake.

    There was a sharp tap at the door. and I disappeared under for a fraction of a second, coughing great mouthfuls of bathwater as I emerged.

    `Nicci! Nicci! Are you ready yet? We're all gagging for a drink now, and you've been ages!' yelled Jackie.

    I looked at my watch; somehow I had lost an hour! Had they moved the clocks without telling me? Wide awake, I was dressed in a flash and followed behind them all to `The Old Bull and Cow'.

    Five of us had arranged to meet, to talk over the events of the day, and have something to eat. There were David and Marion who had travelled from the north of England to attend this course for the third time -- real gluttons for punishment. The techniques I had found impossible to achieve at home with Emma's book, both Marion and David achieved with consummate ease. What was worse, they could both accomplish these near-contortions and still manage that elusive `smiling' thing.

    David was a keen intermediate dressage rider, tall and elegant; his horse a beautiful bay Hanoverian gelding called Flash who had a jet black mane and tail and seemed devoted to David. David was keen for the chiropractor who attended these courses to look at Flash's neck. Everybody knew that there was a problem somewhere around the neck area, but to date nobody had been able to find anything and it was stopping Flash in his work. Whilst David's vet couldn't find anything obviously wrong, he had no objections to Flash's being seen by a specialist as such.

    Marion, David's wife, was prominent in the local hunt. Riding for her was very much a release from the pressures and strains of the environment in which she worked, and hunting was her pleasure, although her ambition was to perform a perfect dressage test. As with so many who ride to hounds, it was not the kill but the gallop across the moors in the company of others, feeling part of a team, that she so loved. She was a `team' sort of person and enjoyed the camaraderie that belonging to the hunt gave her. Her horse was a chestnut Irish hunter-type gelding, called Flipper, 15 years old, and an ex-eventer.

    Jane was a computer executive, whatever that meant. She tried to explain to me what she did at work but I'm afraid I go a bit fuzzy with techno talk. She certainly seemed high-powered and highly stressed accordingly, unable to sit still for any length of time without a glance at a clock or a watch. The time she spent with her horse was her `quality time'; he was kept some miles outside London and she travelled for hours each day to and fro. Maddon, her Danish Warmblood, gleamed in appearance, almost black, with `an eye for trouble and mischief', as Jane described him. `If you're not careful to keep everything secure, he's off.' Maddon evidently had a knack, and passion, for opening stable doors; not just content with his own, he would delight in trying to open as many others as possible before being discovered.

    Jackie was the fifth member of our group. This was the second time she had been on one of these courses and although she commented on how hard she found it, she felt her riding had improved considerably. I felt a great empathy towards Jackie; we shared a room because as smokers we felt ourselves to be outcasts compared with the others, and maybe fate had thrown the two of us together. I felt very comfortable talking to her about some of the things that I believed in, and she shared many of my views.

    She had just resigned from a top marketing job in London to work with horses in a Swiss dressage yard for a fraction of the money. `My family and friends at first found it quite hard to understand; after all I had at last become "successful". Why should I give it all up to go and work with horses? But as I used to drive everybody mad talking about horses all day, they were probably glad to get me out of their hair!'

    I chuckled to myself for I knew exactly how she felt. I myself had followed the same burning ambition to work with horses all my life. It didn't really make much financial sense, but then there are thousands of other people passionate about horses doing just the same. Jackie had brought `Robert', much to my amusement, only hers was much more handsome than my husband. Hers was a grey thoroughbred gelding, 16 hands in his stockinged feet!

    `The Old Bull and Cow' was one of those lovely old, small, country-type pubs with beams and horse brasses, and a fireplace at each end of the room. There was a dartboard in the corner, a variety of odd-shaped tables and chairs dotted around the room, none of which matched, yet all fitted perfectly. It felt more like someone's front room than a pub. Various figures huddled around the tables in small groups and palls of pipe smoke filled the room from a lone figure sitting at the bar. He looked a regular with one of those comforting silver tankards, his name engraved proudly on the front. As we passed, his gaze caught mine and he winked and laughed. `You lot must be over at Emma's, judging by the way you're all walking.' We groaned; was it that obvious that we'd all been tortured?

    We chatted away about the day and how we all felt we were coping. It was good to see some progressing well, as it gave the rest of us, including me, encouragement to continue. It had been so hard for Arnie during the first day and I was still desperately worried about him. I didn't know whether he would want to try again tomorrow, it was up to him. I hadn't really had much chance at all to experience the `feel' they were all talking about, but if Arnie couldn't face any more, then so be it. If he wanted to continue, then we would give it our best shot.

    David, a doctor by trade and observant by nature, suddenly changed the tack of the conversation and asked about the deep scar on Arnie's underbelly.

    `How on earth did you notice that?' I asked.

    `Doctor's training I suppose. Anyway, it wasn't difficult to miss as you went past my nose with him standing up on his hind legs like that!'

    I laughed; my father was an army doctor and equally observant. As children we could never manage to hide anything from him and every bump and scratch was examined in minute detail, followed by great tales of infection and pus, and how we must be more careful.

    `That scar's seven years old now and the reason why I bought Arnie in the first place.' I was handed a steaming baked potato overflowing with beans and cheese. I thanked Jackie and we agreed to sort out the money once we got back to our room.

    `Arnie was brought to me by a client who wanted him tidied up and sold,' I explained. `His early career in steeplechasing had been marred, both because he was a very bad traveller which limited his choice of races, and also because of a wind problem he'd subsequently developed.

    `They kept trying with him because of his good breeding. He had various operations to sort out his breathing problem, but to no avail. He still ran out of steam after about a mile and wasn't fast enough to be a sprinter so they brought him to me to sell on for another job. They pronounced him too "hot" to showjump, but too good for his current job as lead horse for the trekkers; he was destined for something in between. When he arrived he was aggressive in the stable, mistrustful and had a tendency to bolt.'

    I paused as great shouts and cheers filled the room from the crowd gathered round the dartboard. Someone had obviously done better than expected.

    `Carry on,' said Jackie, who had taken an instant liking to Arnie, as most people did, and wanted to know more.

    I quenched my thirst on my `medicinal' Guinness and continued. `We were riding out one morning along one of the bridle paths close to the yard on the farm. I was riding Wellington, a thickset, Irish draught hunter, nearly as broad as he was long.'

    `Where did he come from?' asked Marion.

    `He belonged to another client who followed the local hunt. Anyway, Tina, the girl who worked for me, was riding Arnie as Wellie could be a bit of a handful at times. Arnie was getting really tense and uptight. As he started to rear and bounce around, Tina became nervous and started to clutch at the reins. "Drop your hands, for God's sake drop your hands!" I shouted, already seeing what was going to happen.'

    `What on earth does "drop your hands" mean?' asked Jane.

    `With a trained racehorse the more you take up the rein, the more you're telling it to get a wiggle on. Drop your hands and it should relax.'

    Jane nodded in approval trying to work out in her own mind how Maddon would respond to such a command. `What happened next?'

    `Tina kept clutching the reins tightly,' I continued, `and so Arnie launched himself and bolted along the path. I had to battle with Wellie to stop him following in hot pursuit, which would only have made matters worse. We followed sedately; me hoping that they would have stopped at the wicket gate at the end of the path. As I rounded the corner the sun was in my eyes but I was able to see the silhouettes of Arnie and Tina stopped some way ahead of us by the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief as I approached them.

    `Then, as I moved nearer, out of the glare of the sun, the full impact of what had happened hit me. I could see that the gate was demolished with only the two support posts left standing. I flung myself from Wellie, and as I got closer I realised that Arnie was grotesquely crumpled in the middle of the splintered wood. His nose was on the ground on the far side of the smashed gate, where the narrow path inclined sharply uphill; forelegs folded under his chest, his hind legs were splayed out behind him at an unnatural angle. My mind spun and then I realised that he was actually propped up, impaled by a stake through the groin. At this point another horse and rider came up the track behind us; a friend. I yelled at her to call the knacker man -- at this point I could see no hope for Arnie at all. "I'll call the vet," she said, disappearing off down the path.

    `How could I get Arnie up? He was obviously in shock and completely stuck. There was no way he could get out of this alone. Totally on auto-pilot, I ran back to Wellie, grabbed my short racing whip, and dashing back to Arnie, I hit him -- quite hard, three times -- just above his tail, just where the central nervous system comes to a key point in the spine.

    `It worked. On the third blow, he sort of sprang up -- very quickly and easily, considering. I shouted to Tina to grab him, but being in a state of shock herself, she just stood there as Arnie galloped past, reins and stirrups flapping, blood and torn tissue trailing.

    `It was a nightmare. Yelling at Tina to get back to the yard and stay there, I ran for Wellie, jumped on board and set off after Arnie. I was sick with fear. I tracked him across two fields following a trail of hoofprints and blood, imagining the worst as the trail took me on to what was, ordinarily, a busy country road.

    `I dreaded what I might find, but to my relief I saw him, held by a lady who had stopped her car to catch him. Luckily Tina had followed us, taking a short cut across the fields, and was able to take Wellie from me. She set off back to the farm to get someone to bring the trailer.

    `It seemed like an age before I heard the trailer coming. Arnie by now was beginning to sway slightly and I kept telling him to hang on ... hang on, help was coming. Finally the trailer appeared round the corner, driven by old Owen who worked on the farm with Robert. Never was I more pleased to see his massive frame wedged in behind the wheel.

    `With little difficulty we managed to manoeuvre Arnie into the trailer. By this stage he seemed almost too calm for my liking, and I knew that he had lost a lot of blood. The journey to the surgery seemed painfully long and slow. They had been warned what to expect on our arrival so both vets were ready for us. They examined Arnie and sucked their teeth at what they saw. The stake had penetrated seven inches into his groin and yet miraculously had managed to avoid all his major organs.'

    `He was very lucky,' said David. `I've seen people in my time who haven't survived similar accidents.'

    `The following two hours seemed to last a lifetime. They operated, allowing me to assist. They explained that they had done what they could for him, but that his chances of surviving the recovery period were slim. The wound was deep, he'd had a catheter inserted, and the likelihood of infection was high. I was allowed to take him home on the condition that I would phone them if he deteriorated at all.

    `From that moment on, Arnie changed completely. All his aggression and mistrust towards me disappeared. He ate heartily, and would stand like a rock as I dressed his wound and sterilised the catheter. I was determined he wouldn't get infected so I rigged up a harness over his back to support a baby's disposable nappy to cover the wound, and this worked well.

    `He began to regain his strength until the day came when I could turn him out in a field on his own; that was a special day for me. No one had believed that he stood much chance of survival, yet here he was now, bright as a button, cantering around the field.'

    `So what happened with his owner? The guy who was trying to sell Arnie in the first place?' asked Jackie.

    `Well, funny you should mention that. I actually bought Arnie before he'd even come round from the operation! I phoned my mother and begged her for the money. I can't explain it, but I just knew I had to buy him.'

    I struggled to describe to these people how I really felt about Arnie, but the words were inadequate. `I had never come across such presence in a horse, such courage, such reserves of inner strength. So I paid the owner the asking price. I also paid the vet's bills for making Arnie better. It was the best money I ever spent.'

    As we left the pub for our b&bs everybody agreed that Arnie must surely be made of something special to be still alive today. We said our goodbyes and looked forward to another day of `torture' back on the course.

    Jackie and I returned to our room and decided to have `one last cup of tea', which usually meant at least three or four!

    `I was jolly impressed at how you managed to stay on board Arnie today,' Jackie said. `Frankly, I don't understand what you're doing on a riding course when you can ride like that. You didn't budge an inch. I've ridden some pretty potty characters in my time but if it had been me, I'm sure I'd have come off. None of us could believe it when you just sat there and calmly told him that he was "out of order". Weren't you worried he'd go over backwards with you or something? He seemed pretty stressed out and that normally means fireworks.'

    I groaned inwardly. Should I tell her? Would she really understand if I told her that the reason I was so calm at Arnie's apparent outburst was because I knew the cause? Because I knew that he was reacting to excruciating pain -- pain that I had felt; because I knew how he was feeling emotionally; because I knew what his next move would be since I could catch his thoughts; because I knew he was a true and honourable friend and would never do anything to endanger me intentionally?

    I brushed off Jackie's question. `No, not really, I'm used to it.' Yet I felt I needed to talk to someone or I was going to burst. Before we had come, Arnie had told me that there were other horses apart from my own who needed my help, who needed someone to speak for them. The silent majority.

    He had been right. The other horses somehow knew that I could hear them. David's horse had been the first, spinning me round and prodding me in the back of the neck, transmitting the pain so that it was replicated in minute and accurate detail in my own neck. My own horses would do this when they had a problem and now Flash was doing the same. I knew where the problem was in Flash's neck but who was going to believe me?

    Jackie looked up from her mug of steaming tea and interrupted my train of thought. `I overheard you telling Emma that Arnies back was killing him just before you put him away. What did you mean by that? Does he have a problem?'

    I paused for a moment, I was bursting to tell the truth and I felt somehow that Jackie would understand. I don't know why; it just felt right. I had told one or two people before and they had just either laughed or somehow felt threatened by what I was saying. Then, remembering Robert's warning, I decided against it.

    `Yes, he has a few old racing injuries and finds some of the disciplined movements a bit too much to cope with.'

    The conversation petered out slowly as the fatigue of the day caught up with us both. Giving in to our wearied eyelids, we headed for our beds.

Read More